You Can't Beat the Meat

I can't believe all this prissy hand-wringing going on in Europe about whether horse meat may or may not be hiding in someone's frozen lasagna. I thought you guys who ate meat were by-god carnivore's, not some mincing Nancy-girls worried about inadvertently chowing down on the processed remains of someone's pretty, pretty pony.

There really should be fast-food joints just for you meat-lovin' guys called "Meat", with a big friendly sign out front that says "Screw the FDA!". You'd drive up, ask for your protein chunk at the happy, bloodthirsty clown, and catch it in your teeth as you lope past the cashier's window. No utensils, no napkins, no sauce, just meat. And don't ask what kind of meat it is because only little pussies would care. Just wolf it down and get back to business while you wait for colon cancer to kick in.

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On a less splenetic note, Beloved Girlfriend and I watched a terrific film this weekend called "The Sessions" (See the trailer here). It's a semi-biographical film about a poet, Mark O'Brien, a man confined to an iron lung most of his life, who engages the services of a sex surrogate to help him lose his virginity at the age of 38. It's thoughtful, funny, and oftentimes quite sad, but never sophomoric. Helen Hunt bares it all in the role of the therapist and earned an Oscar nomination for Best Actress for her efforts. Bill Macy plays the coolest priest I've ever seen and John Hawkes in the lead role actually damaged his spine contorting his body effecting the posture of a polio victim. This is a movie for adults, not an adult movie. Rent it, buy it, watch it.

=Lefty=